


This Life

by Nagaina



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Completely Filthy With Feelings, Hanzo Shimada is a disaster gay and no one will ever convince me otherwise, M/M, Only Minutely Sullied By Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaina/pseuds/Nagaina
Summary: Jesse McCree returns home from foiling a train robbery and rescuing an old friend to discover the rewards for his heroics waiting for him.





	This Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficlicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficlicious/gifts).



> I'm glad we're all in agreement that the important business that Jesse had to take care of is Hanzo.

Hanzo Shimada was forced to admit that the hovercycle was, indeed, an impressive example of the breed. Genji had, from the years fourteen to sixteen, harbored a deep and self-destructive notion that he would one day be a famous hoverbike racer and had plastered the walls of his room with posters, cluttered every conceivable horizontal surface in models and holosculptures, spent a completely astonishing amount of money on books and videos and event tickets, had in fact made himself something of an expert on the topic, and graciously shared that expertise with his long-suffering, parentally-mandated voice of reason elder brother, whether Hanzo wanted him to or not. Enough of that involuntarily received education remained ineradicably lodged in the subbasements of his mind, allowing him to appreciate the technical specifications of the vehicle, the finely tuned power of its motivators, the precisely angled thrust panels of its hoverpods, its sleekly aerodynamic lines and dangerous curves. It was precisely the shade of deep, rich, metallic red that would have set sixteen year old Genji to making dangerously intemperate demands of his trust fund. Altogether an exquisite machine.

 

Hanzo was also forced to admit that he found it somewhat more exquisite and admirable in contrast to the broad, well-muscled expanse of his lover’s back, currently presented for his leisurely perusal. Here the faded remnants of a tattoo, inexpertly applied and never redone or removed. There a handful of scars, paler against the sun-kissed bronze of his skin. Scattered among them a sequence of deep purple love-bites drew a pattern reminiscent of falling cherry blossoms, which Hanzo lifted his mouth from applying the last to admire, shifting minutely inside Jesse’s body as he did so.

 

“ _ Darlin’, _ ” Jesse moaned beneath him and squirmed backwards on the bike’s long seat, trying to get more -- more friction, more of him -- and Hanzo chuckled softly, rocked forward to meet him.

 

“You like this, beloved?” Hanzo murmured, and pressed a kiss to the sweat-slicked skin, sweat-curled hair, at the nape of his neck. “You desire more?”

 

“ _ Yes, _ ” Jesse panted, shivered, moaned. “Gods and dragons, yes. Missed you the whole time I was gone, darlin’.”

 

“I know.” Hanzo wrapped an arm around him, took a handful of sweaty curls in hand, and quickened the measure accordingly.

 

Neither of them lasted long after that, between the sun beating down on them from above, the heat of their own bodies, the friction internal and external, a pace just short of fierce, nearly frantic. Jesse shuddered to completion beneath him, crying out his pleasure in at least three languages, and Hanzo, caught tight inside him, was not far behind, the intensity of it washing through him in a wave that curled his toes and lightened his head, left him slumped over Jesse’s back panting for breath. For a long, sweet moment afterwards, neither of them moved except to kiss and nuzzle and caress. 

 

“We should go in before we get cooked crispy.” Jesse glanced back over his shoulder, the smile curling his mouth soft and warm. “Have a shower. And round two.”

 

Hanzo sat up, and back, and let himself slide free, both of them shivering at the sensation. “A shower, yes. But I found your recipe box and I have...plans. Round two will have to wait.”

 

He slung a leg over and gained his feet, offering Jesse a hand up, which he accepted, stretching and groaning and reaching over to gather up the shirt he’d laid over the bits of sun-warmed metal he preferred not to have pressed into his skin. Hanzo glanced away, steadfastly refused to look at what that revealed, but somehow did not smooth his expression quickly enough. Jesse caught him around the waist, pulled him close, and captured his mouth without any particular struggle, his kiss deep and gentle and comforting.

 

“I meant what I said before, Hanzo.” He said softly as they parted, catching his eyes with his own intensely earnest gaze. “You got nothin’ to worry about there.”

 

“I know.” Hanzo replied, even as everything in him that was jealous and covetous and possessive writhed silently. “Come. Shower, and then the second half of your reward for returning safely.”

 

“Y’know, I could get used to this sort of thing.”

 

“I do,” Hanzo admitted, and tamed those avaricious urges by taking firm possession of a handful of his lover’s ass as they made their way up the cabin’s steps.

 

Dinner that night was a selection of clearly well-loved favorites, chosen from among the most dog-eared cards in an actual rusty tin box decorated in inexpertly painted yellow and red flowers, a thing so obviously old and carefully protected and deeply treasured, Hanzo was briefly hesitant to even touch it. Round two, somewhat later, was longer and slower and sweeter, more gentle, in the loft bed upstairs, Jesse curling into his arms afterward, laying his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, murmuring soft words of love and endearment until the sleep of the righteous and the well-loved took him. Hanzo waited until he was certain Jesse was deeply at rest, then slipped out of his arms, slid into his yukata, and padded outside.

 

The picture taped to the bike’s temperature gauge was an old one: torn and worn and pieced back together. In the light of his own comm unit, he examined it closely, memorized the curves of the woman’s face, the shape of her eyes and nose and mouth, the set of her jaw and her shoulders, for he knew trouble when he saw it. Even if she was not a  _ threat _ , she was still a danger, and he could see the day coming when she might be both, when smoldering anger met opportunity and came calling. 

 

He stroked his fingertips, gently, over the other half of the photo and was tempted, briefly, to peel it free, to take it back with him -- and paused. This younger version of Jesse was not  _ his _ Jesse. This Jesse, the boy on the cusp of manhood, weapon in hand and cigarillo clenched between his teeth, was  _ angry _ , something hard and dark and cold living behind his honey-brown eyes, something bordering on cruel in the set of his mouth.  _ That _ Jesse, he felt, he knew, would not have looked on him with compassion or kindness, would not have offered his hand in friendship, would not have loved him -- just as his younger self would not have reached out for what they had now, or been willing to fight or kill to keep it.

 

It was not a past that his Jesse would choose to keep, or to remember more than he must.

 

Hanzo slipped silently back inside, hung his yukata next to the fire burning low in the kiva, and slid back into bed. Jesse stirred, half-opened his eyes with a sleepy murmur, gathered him close. “You’re cold. You okay, darlin’?”

 

“Yes,” Hanzo replied, and kissed his eyes closed. 


End file.
